


The Great and the Good

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual background case, Gen, Post-Series 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John disappears, Sherlock meets the family, and a Talk is had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great and the Good

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ 10th January 2011, before Series 2 aired, and some sections have now been rewritten to fit with the new canon.

Two weeks after the swimming pool failed to explode and Moriarty vanished into the ether, John went missing. 

One day, when Sherlock was already feeling the agonising twinges of boredom after finally having a case of interest (perhaps there had been cases afterwards, cases that had their own merits, but everything was fading into dullness like the world after staring too long at the sun, and whenever Lestrade called it was out of _concern_ , and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to carry on the case left hanging in the smell of chlorine), he barely paid attention to John leaving “for more milk”, and only noticed twenty-three hours later, after finally putting his violin down, that he’d never come back.

It was a disturbing realisation for 4 o’clock in the morning. No doubt John would have said that it was more disturbing how quickly Sherlock then jumped to Moriarty and felt more than a bit of excitement (or rather have commented on the sheer length of time, even though he _knew_ how hard Sherlock tried to distract himself at times like this), except John not being there was precisely the issue.

Of course, he could have simply gone off to Sarah’s. After Moriarty, he had noticed (naturally he had noticed; why John had even bothered he would never understand) that John hadn’t been announcing his visits in the same way as before. As if he wasn’t trying to prove anything anymore. Interesting. But only a side fact. The point was that John might have simply felt that a night on the sofa was somehow more attractive than entertaining Sherlock after two weeks of inactivity. 

Whilst thinking (because there was rarely a time that Sherlock wasn’t thinking, so multi-tasking had become something of a necessity by the time he was three), he rattled off several texts to John, and when those did not receive any response (not even an annoyed request for him to stop), he tried Sarah instead. She didn’t reply either – at least, not until Sherlock had evidently sent enough to break through her slumber. Then he did at last get a reply, in the form of an angry phone-call from someone obviously still insufficiently awake to fully articulate insults. Sherlock was perfectly aware that Sarah had taken a dislike to him, more on John’s account than anything else, and apparently having a date cancelled owing to her boyfriend’s kidnapping by a criminal mastermind had not improved matters. Also, she was clearly having trouble sleeping, judging by how much she lingered on the subject, and their relationship wasn’t as involved as he had thought (or as John had wanted him to believe), given her exclamation mid-rant of “and why would I know where he was?”

So. Not at Sarah’s. 

Sherlock bit back another flush of excitement at the sense of déjà vu. No. Moriarty wouldn’t repeat himself like this, not so soon after the original event. Perhaps in six months – long enough for them to relax, short enough for the memories to still wound – but not now.

Sherlock didn’t like theorising Moriarty out of the picture (or at least the centre of the picture – as he had very quickly begun to learn, nobody could provide the paints as quickly or quietly as a certain ‘Jim from IT’), but at least at the moment, there was equal logic for any other theory – revenge from another in the organisation (two weeks would be a normal lapse period for the necessary politics to progress sufficiently), or even anybody else copying the trick. After all, Moriarty hadn’t even been the first. 

It occurred then to Sherlock that he might be overreacting slightly. The lack of John’s presence at either Baker Street or Sarah’s flat hardly prevented him from making his own way anywhere else in London. Possibly he had simply gone to the pub, picked somebody up, or been picked up himself. Sherlock might have been biased by John’s previous record, particularly after Moriarty. 

He checked his phone. Still no reply.

He was bored. Making mysteries out of nowhere. Mycroft had lectured him about that. But John had a useful inability to ignore his texts and Sherlock never listened to Mycroft’s lectures anyway.

\---------

To Sherlock’s surprise (that was what boredom did to him), he didn’t need to text Lestrade as soon as he could expect a response. Lestrade called him.

“We could probably get this one on our own, I know, but God knows you’re probably bouncing off the walls already, and this looks like your sort of thing.”

Sherlock should ask about the ‘thing’, or make some comment about his ‘bouncing’. “Anything about John?”

“What?” Lestrade sounded about as confused as he had when Sherlock had jumped from a body in the river to a fake painting. “What about him?”

He frowned – nothing so far then, but at least that meant John’s body hadn’t turned up yet (except it wouldn’t because he shouldn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t assume that John was dead already; he was just missing; jumping to conclusions hampered clear thinking). “Where’s the case?” Things didn’t happen in his life by coincidence. As much as he wanted to start pursuing John, this sounded like something concrete – more concrete than a flatmate who might actually respond if there was something fun happening – and leads tended to find him at crime scenes. They focused everything like that.

“No, wait, what about John?” Lestrade sounded concerned – of course he did.

“Nothing.” A lie. “He’s not here. Where are you calling from?”

Lestrade sounded apprehensive, but he did at least give him an address. Sherlock was already texting it to John the moment he hung up. Perhaps this was connected; perhaps not. Suddenly Sherlock didn’t feel like staying in Baker Street anymore.

\----------

It was good. Truly it was, in a way that John would no doubt have labelled Not Good. Except John wasn’t there, so technically there was nothing to stop Sherlock from enjoying himself. (More justification for suspicion: neither of them could ever resist a crime scene.)

The body was laid out in the middle of a disgustingly white carpet – nobody properly lived here, white was the worst colour possible when it came to living, there was no possible way of keeping it clean – arranged between an impressively expensive sound system and an obnoxiously contented-looking white leather sofa. Scattered all around it was blood, soaking into the white carpet and forming a rather lovely pattern, momentarily distracting him. In many ways it was like admiring the stars, drawing pictures in them as he had when he was a child, except no doubt considering the two to be similar was also Not Good. Nevertheless, he turned to comment on it to John, then remembered he wasn’t there, and felt both annoyed at his own mistake (his memory was much better than that) and strangely put out.

“Maid found him,” Lestrade informed him, coming to stand next to him. “She’s booked to come in at ten, found this poor sod just lying here.”

“When was the last time anyone was here?” Sherlock asked automatically – his own version of ‘politely’ – while scanning the room. Nothing looked touched. Everything was perfectly aligned, which anywhere else would have looked suspicious, but in a room this impersonal that would have been hideously but perfectly normal.

“Maid says she was here yesterday morning, nothing unusual. Bloke downstairs says he saw the occupant heading out at about five in the evening – still looking for him – and he heard some thumps like somebody was moving something heavy around eleven-thirty.”

“Definitely not the furniture,” Sherlock muttered, moving closer to inspect the body, letting the deductions drown out anything else in his head. “The carpet would have shown it.”

He peered closely at the body, then wrinkled his nose. Whoever this was, she hadn’t had a bath in weeks. There was old sweat and dirt underneath the smell of blood. Glancing down at the clothes, he noted that they showed all the signs of living on the streets (no, under a bridge, look at the water marks), and the skin underneath… This person couldn’t have lived – not even for five minutes – in a white room like this without leaving some signs. A perfectly-defined set of fingerprints, for starters.

“Who is this?” 

“No idea. Not Mr Klein, I can tell you that.” Of course not, Mr Klein was obviously not a woman. Sherlock really couldn’t stand that sort of inane humour when something brilliant was on display.

The body was almost two days old. Not killed here, either – no blood underneath where it should have bled out from that open throat, and any struggle would have been easy to detect on this blank a canvas. The blood on the carpet, the sofa, the sound system (he stepped over the body to check): that had all been added. Scattered at random. Fascinating. He traced the path of distribution, only realising when Lestrade asked “Sorry, what was that?” that he’d been talking out loud to the room. _No,_ he realised with an annoyed wince, _talking to John._

“Nothing,” he said irritably, turning back to the body. “Force of habit.”

“Right.” Lestrade looked strangely uncomfortable. Not from the body – Lestrade was a seasoned police officer, he’d seen worse, mostly when Sherlock had been involved – but something else. “Where did you say John is?”

“I said I don’t know,” he replied, lowering himself to peer under the sofa. Nothing. Only a surface scattering then. Making an immediate point, nothing thorough.

“You don’t know.” Why did Lestrade sound so disbelieving? Sherlock’s brain was starting to whir rather splendidly; he didn’t want to be distracted by having to analyse Lestrade as well. “What, he’s just gone?”

“Yes.” Everything about the room was the picture of wealth. A dead beggar. Blood on anything that showed money. “I assume someone took him.”

“What?” Lestrade sounded incredulous. 

Sherlock looked at the body again. Mud on the shoes put her locally, by the river. “Logical conclusion. No response to texts. Didn’t come here. Possibly someone within Moriarty’s organisation.” That wasn’t important; he wanted to ask where the nearest bridge was, because for some reason his mental map was otherwise occupied with marking out possible holding houses. Lestrade’s fault: he kept distracting him, preventing him from focusing on the case in hand.

When he looked up, Lestrade was staring at him. “And you’re just…not doing anything.” He looked almost nervous. Not relevant, of course, but still interesting to observe in a DI who normally seemed very hard to shake.

“You called me. I needed to get out of the flat anyway.” Needed to start looking for John; except he hadn’t looked in his room, why hadn’t he done that? Lestrade must have distracted him. Why had he let him? And why was he so annoyed about it? (Because it was a case and he hated being distracted from any case, let alone one involving John.)

Think, the body was from the river; was it killed there? Look; why wasn’t he looking? He wanted to ask John to look at the body, point out something obvious, except John wasn’t there and of course Sherlock didn’t need him there, this was simple enough, somebody wanted to plant a female beggar in a rich man’s home (because nobody would spend so much money on appearances and then throw around blood like this, especially not in such an artistic manner, and he wanted to point that out to John and he wasn’t there, how aggravating), but his mind wouldn’t stay on this, kept trying to trace who might have taken John. 

“‘Needed to’… Christ, Sherlock, you don’t care?”

“Yes, I do!” he snapped irritably. When that finally earned him some silence, he looked up to see Lestrade staring at him. Mentally he reviewed his response, and realised that previously he had only snapped like that when a case was frustrating him. When everybody seemed so stupid. Funny, he found himself thinking that he might not have reacted like that if John had been here, except of course he wouldn’t have needed to in that case because John was precisely the subject, and what was _wrong_ with him?

He breathed in deeply, focusing on the patterns in the blood, before saying in what was hopefully not too obviously a forced calm voice (he could act better than this, why did he need to try?), “John’s gone, and I am investigating, but you also asked for my help. This may provide some clues. I don’t know yet, but I soon will.” He glared at the DI, thinking at him _You may go now_ , and when that didn’t work, he turned back to the matter at hand, ignoring the way that Lestrade would not stop staring at him.

\----------

Before he tracked down the bridge, he examined John’s room (mostly because his mind was clearly not going to do what it was told until he did so). Obviously no signs of a struggle, and naturally devoid of any convenient useful notes, not even in the places where Sherlock knew John liked to think he could hide things from him. Some things were missing though. Considering the tidy state John normally kept his room in (not obsessive or unlived-in, just trained military with scars), it was easy enough for Sherlock to trace the missing objects: sufficient clothes and underwear for a week. Examining the rest of the flat revealed a missing toothbrush (but not toothpaste), razor and shaving foam, as well as John’s laptop. None of which he’d had with him when he went out, because Sherlock would have noticed either visually or aurally (it was hard not to let John in on the trick, but it was surprisingly pleasing to use simply listening to the creaks on the staircase to stay ahead, and John could have figured it out for himself if he just paid attention the way Sherlock had taught him).

He stood in the middle of their living room, thinking to himself (which wasn’t remarkable in itself, he was always thinking, that was what people didn’t quite seem to grasp, he just did different things _while_ he was thinking). Damn Lestrade. Because of his summons, he had no idea whether those items had been taken in advance. He tried examining his visual memory, but God, he’d been so bored that he’d been trying to distract himself from staring at that room for so many days in a row.

Not even anything to be discovered from examining John’s blog or hacking his e-mail (although he had noticed his friend had learnt to delete messages, both sent and received, which he didn’t wish Sherlock to view) and the investigation hadn’t yet reached the stage where it was reasonable to start contacting hackers, no matter how much he suddenly wanted to do it. Sherlock even tried _calling_ him, only to throw his phone across the room when he was politely informed by a computer that the number he had dialled was unavailable. Either John was finally starting to learn something (being John, he couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient time, although it was probably Moriarty’s fault) or Sherlock was looking in the wrong places. Building up the wrong theories.

Briefly he actually considered simply asking Mycroft to locate John, which fortunately acted as sufficient shock to bring him back to himself. He wasn’t anywhere _near_ that desperate. John was more than capable of taking care of himself, or even getting a message to him. It wasn’t as if they were in the middle of a case, and there was no a time limit or ransom note. And if nothing was heard…well, Sherlock would have no choice but to turn London upside-down to find him.

Nevertheless, now that he was focusing on _this_ investigation, his mind seemed to have finally woken up. He knew precisely where the mud on that girl’s shoes had come from – and for that matter, he knew who (plural) to ask about her.

He still sent a text to update John. Just in case.

\----------

The second victim was rather predictable (for Sherlock, at least): Mr Klein himself, underneath the bridge where the victim – the best name he could find from the homeless network seemed to be Emma, or possibly Anna, and that was what you got when everyone’s names sounded so boringly similar – had lived. His surroundings had been wonderfully arranged to echo his grand living room, although of course artistically positioned piles of boxes had to stand in for expensive luxuries. The blood belonged at the scene though, despite the fact that it was (as close as possible) the same composition as before.

Methodically he examined the body for what could be uncovered. Same injury to the neck, but the body was much fresher. For some reason the locals had kept their distance. Fear? It was a good spot though. Had someone seen the killer? Had s/he threatened them?

What would John think?

Why did he even care?

Clearly it was something leftover after Moriarty – bonding experience, severe trauma, whatever psychologists might decide to label it. Or even withdrawal all over again – he was sufficiently self-aware to know he was just ‘unhinged’ enough for that to happen. Disturbing implications.

Klein’s fixed expression of shock indicated a man caught off-guard. He was dressed in what was clearly his finest suit (height of fashion), but – strange – it had clearly been pulled on him by someone else, probably after death, judging by the distribution of blood. Someone with access to his clothes? But then again, he already knew that the person had been in his room to deposit the other body – clothes were nothing.

At least Lestrade was too distracted to _look_ at him in the same way as at the last crime scene – his attention was being taken up by a hulking giant of a man, who looked irate at having the police around. Curiously, he only stopped threatening bodily violence when he caught sight of the body, upon which his face suddenly, briefly (Sherlock observed it with interest), twisted into an expression of complete confusion. Expecting Emma/Anna?

It was enough of a hint for him to look closer at the area itself, spotting that there were in fact two sets of blood stains. Obvious really, how had he missed that?

Two stains. One definitely older. About as old as that body back in the white room. 

Somebody had swapped the bodies. The one originally killed here came first, but she had been set up in Klein’s apartment to echo his death here. Why?

He narrowed his eyes at the body, swooping back up close for another look. The injuries looked…methodical. Precise. Comparing this body against the other pictured in his mind, he noted the exact duplication of wounds, but without the force – the emotion – of the first. Where was John with a medical opinion? (Not that Sherlock really needed one, but expertise was still something to respect, if only to cut down on time.)

It was an important revelation, he could tell that, possibly of great significance, but he couldn’t tell anyone. Telling the police would be like, well, telling the police, sending them off after half a theory with nothing solid for them to catch. That wasn’t what the police were _for_ , whatever they might think. 

He greatly wanted to tell someone though. Apparently the showing off to John (of course it was showing off, he wasn’t usually the self-deluded type, he knew he liked the attention and nobody was more interesting than him, he could tell in the way John would drop anything for him) had become something he relied on. Good thing he’d caught that one. He could always tell the skull later.

\-----------

The only clue to be gathered regarding his _other_ investigation came from Donovan, of all people. Sherlock was thinking to himself, trying to imagine why someone would care enough to mimic a location while also pondering how long it would take a perfectly capable military man to leave him some sort of sign, when, wonder of wonders, she voluntarily started a conversation with him. “Why do you think someone took him anyway?” When he didn’t respond, she frowned. “Why does it have to be one of your big cases? ‘Cause it’s all about you and your world?”

At that, he looked at her, more bemused than anything else. He had heard similar from her before, of course, but not impromptu and to his face (well, at least the unprovoked part was true). Besides, simply the allusion to John managed to immediately, involuntarily focus his attention on her. 

She pointed a finger in his face. “You don’t care what goes on in his head, do you? To you, he’s expendable, same as the rest of us!”

Something clicked. “What do you know about it?”

She shook her head, looking away. Instantly, he reached out and grabbed her arm. 

“Oi, get your – ”

“ _What do you know about it_?” he hissed, increasing the pressure just past the point of pain.

“Ow, get off, you freak!” She pulled her arm free – he had relaxed his grip just before she tried, he could have hurt her if he had thought it would help – and took a step back, glaring at him as she rubbed the point that had been in his grasp. “I don’t know anything about where he’s gone – ” she was angry enough to be telling the truth about that “ – but I know it’s nothing to do with one of your guys! He just said he was thinking of getting some time off, the way I kept telling him!”

‘Some time off?’ What was that supposed to mean? “Time off from what?”

“You, freak!” she snapped in his face. “God, you are oblivious, aren’t you?” She turned to stalk away, only turning back to add, “Best break you ever got, him. Way more than you ever deserved! You really surprised even he couldn’t take it anymore?”

Donovan had said much worse, especially to him. However, for some reason this in particular struck him, startling him enough for him to simply let her go. 

John wouldn’t have been the first. Mycroft could have named a list of Sherlock’s previous roommates as long as his arm. Sherlock himself had deleted most of them from his hard drive, save for whatever useful data they had provided for him. Sherlock wore people out; wore them out like clothes or toys. He knew that. He _knew_ that.

Donovan, of all people, had most likely reached the proper conclusion (she’d been _told_ , no need to give her unnecessary credit). John’s past record of kidnappings only made his walking out all the more logical. None of those before him had ever been kidnapped, after all, and yet they had all gone in some way. John still _could_ have been taken, but whilst Moriarty might have proved that it worked as a method to get to Sherlock, the underground tended to remember small things like the threat of an exploding swimming pool as a reaction. And nobody would have wanted to take him otherwise – Sherlock was the one who kept putting him in danger. (But John _liked_ danger, didn’t he? Except he also knew he shouldn’t, and he was much stronger than Sherlock that way.)

His ever-emotionlessly-analytical mind (and John always disapproved of that, said Sherlock should care, kept trying to _make_ him care, but it seemed even John Watson could give up) helpfully reminded him of the time lapse between the pool and John walking out. Enough time to plan a kidnapping, but also for a roommate to decide he could do so much better. And he really could.

Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation was the most likely.

_Clothes for only a week_ , part of him weakly offered.

_No toothpaste_ , another part returned. Staying with someone. Probably until he could find somewhere more permanent.

One week’s worth?

Long enough to make a final decision?

He made his way out of the scene in what was probably what people meant when they referred to a ‘haze’, his mind for once thinking about neither of the investigations. He lifted up the police tape and the crowd of bystanders parted before him, gathering together again as he passed, eagerly craning their heads to get a better look. Probably none of them had ever noticed you could go under that bridge before. One of them didn’t turn back, preferring instead to glare at him as he went. Probably annoyed that he had disrupted her view.

\----------

He was trying to focus on the case – Lestrade’s case, there was only one case now – but little thoughts kept flying in to distract him, in a way he hadn’t experienced in years, not since he (or rather Mycroft) started actually training his brain rather than indulgently following wherever it led (because everybody knew that computers get slower with too much information, which surely had a natural conclusion). Every time the two scenes began to arrange themselves side by side out of the swirl, he would remember something from what he had been considering his other case. _‘He couldn’t take it anymore.’_ Interesting way of phrasing it. Very familiar – he had heard many people who had thought they could handle him (their own words, in many cases) say that eventually. It was one of the many reasons he had been able to appreciate just how much patience John had had stored up (often when he’d been testing it extensively). 

It didn’t sound like something John would say though. Sherlock knew full well what John was like when he was reaching the end of his tether. The phrase was far too…over-dramatic. John would certainly have disapproved.

False hope really did feel awful. It was an insight into humanity Sherlock could have done without. Irritably he pushed it aside.

Think, think of the other/only case. Someone who had access and motive. Who cared enough to lay out the victims like that. Did who the victims were really matter?

Nothing. The questions just kept echoing around his brain, bouncing against theories which never seemed plausible, especially compared to the wholly believable _John left you; he packed a bag and left_ hypothesis (he had come back after Sherlock had left for Lestrade’s case, that much Sherlock knew, except there was no way that he could explain that conclusion). 

Experimentally, he tried repeating those questions out loud. He felt like an idiot. Even more so when he found himself glaring at his skull (recently liberated from Mrs Hudson, who had looked apprehensive when he’d informed her of her missing lodger, but not surprised – had everybody known except for him?). “You’re no help.”

\----------

Naturally, he did catch the killer _eventually_. Whatever was wrong with him at the moment, whatever he might have been thinking about John, his meticulously trained mind was still there, albeit struggling to work through God only knew what. Only those used to working with him might have noticed that he took longer than the problem deserved, and out of them, only Lestrade showed any signs of having done so.

Perhaps because Lestrade had known him for so long. Perhaps also because Lestrade had been the one to inform him of the _other_ murder, set up in the exact same way in another rich home, but without the effort or the mirror, which was obviously meant to suggest a serial killer, intended to draw attention away from rather than towards the precise details of the Klein case. Which drew Sherlock’s attention to a maid named Anna with access to both rich locations, a supposedly dead twin sister, and a great deal of hatred for both her employers and her meagre wages.

Lestrade knew. Sherlock could tell by the way he kept _looking_ at him. He knew they’d only been lucky that this hadn’t been the work of a serial killer, since there was absolutely nothing to suggest that Sherlock could have acted in enough time to prevent any number of extra murders taking place. And Sherlock didn’t care, _shouldn’t_ care about that – he never had before. Only if it was all a game.

\----------

It seemed there was still something for him though, rather than the inevitable return to boredom (and hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn’t start acting like this was some sort of divorce and, even worse, _worrying_ about him). Things started getting interesting again (so much better than whatever was left from that _look_ of Lestrade’s – as if he had wanted to say something but had no idea what) when he was walking towards the police tape, and noticed a woman glaring at him from the crowd of bystanders. Not that Sherlock wasn’t used to that from women, but they weren’t usually complete strangers. Or, more to the point, they weren’t usually complete strangers whom he’d spotted glaring at him at a crime scene before. Furthermore, when he tried simply walking away once more, she wormed her way through the crowd to begin following him.

“I suppose you’re happy then? Solved another one? How many people died on this one?” she yelled after him, prompting him to stop and turn back to her, eyebrow raised as he took in her appearance.

Long, frizzy, mousy-brown hair; average height; eyes that were used to frowning at people judging by the lines between them; clothes from two years previous that were well-worn and had obviously been washed and ironed recently in a hurry. Her hair colour bothered her, since he could see the leftover colour from the last dye-job, but she’d let it grow out fully, so it didn’t seem important anymore, perhaps after losing someone close to her. Nothing about her clothes was newer than one year previous and the signs of wear suggested that wasn’t because they were new discoveries. The combination suited her at least, but was obviously meant to compliment the red that had almost completely departed her hair – tried and tested but she was working with old clothes, suggesting she was trying to make a good impression but hadn’t been shopping in a while (money going elsewhere?). Not a romantic impression though – she would have dyed her hair if it was a matter of appearing attractive, so it was rather about appearing normal, so perhaps for a family member – 

“Hey!” she yelled, somehow managing to briefly derail him. Interesting. Not many people could do that – it had something to do with tone and volume and something else, something Mycroft and John could both do that Sherlock had never been able to identify, which was disconcerting to say the least. “I’m trying to talk to you!”

“And yet you’re not saying anything,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes, slipping into analysis again. The tone suggested she was used to ordering someone, but more as a sister than as a police officer. The sibling she’d seen recently (since you made more of an effort to dress up for parents, whereas this woman was concerned about jeans and a t-shirt)?

If anything, her glare deepened, and there was something eerily familiar about it. “God, you really do have such a way with women,” she muttered sarcastically. “No wonder you’ve got such a packed social life.”

“Which is clearly a concern of yours.” Interesting how she had said it though – suggested a position of knowledge, not speculation. “Should I be flattered?”

At that, she made a curious noise – somewhere between a spit and some strange _pff`_ sound – wrinkling her nose at the same time. He guessed at disgust. “Like hell. I know you don’t seem to get insults, but – ”

“And how do you know that?” he cut in, sensing an impending list of more direct insults. 

Apparently being interrupted didn’t suit her. A lot of anger was being taken out here – the expressions suggested a lack of control; the lack of supporting words suggested he was in part being used as a proxy. Despite knowing how to order around a sibling, she seemed to have little self-control, and showing that only made it worse. Some more fundamental problem?

“Look, I know you think you’re fantastically above us all, but you’ve got no right, you hear me? We can’t all be – how did he put it – as ‘brilliant’ as you, but if that means not cooing over dead bodies, or, or people just _knowing_ that you’re wherever the news is reporting about, then – ”

Sherlock hastily tuned the rest to background noise. Whoever this woman was, she didn’t know Sherlock directly (and he would hardly have forgotten her, based on this performance), only through someone else – this mysterious ‘he’. (Him?) Somebody who had known he would be here based on the news, and had apparently called him ‘brilliant’.

Probably the sibling she had so recently met again (hence the information cutting a little deeper; hence her actually coming to the scene) and after sufficiently long a parting to merit some attempts at a change in lifestyle – perhaps to cover up a problem which had alienated them in the first place. The same problem which had driven away the person for whom she had dyed her hair (the amount of growth suggested over six months ago, at least). An alienated sibling who might disapprove; who had reappeared recently; who knew Sherlock and yet somehow still called him ‘brilliant’.

“Oh,” he said softly, followed by, “ _Oh_!” This louder exclamation apparently managed to snap her out of her rant.

“What? You orgasming or something?”

He leant in, peering closely at her, ignoring her attempt to lean back away from him. Different chin, similar bone structure, and the exact same eyes. “You’re _Harriet_.”

That shut her up. For a moment all of that anger vanished into a look of pure shock: eyes wide, mouth slightly open. 

Just a moment though. “ _Harry_.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Whichever.” And really it didn’t matter, although there was a wealth of details which could be deducted from that simple preference, particularly when coupled with her reaction to the lesser preferred name. All fascinating, yet Sherlock was pleased to find that his customary focus on the important and relevant had finally returned. “John’s staying with you.”

Not quite the same stunned expression, but she was clearly surprised by that too. “How the hell do you – ”

He waved his hand irritably, dismissively. “You’ve made an effort to make yourself presentable but you haven’t bothered to make yourself smart, and you’ve just shared several details which could only have come from John, and knowledge you could only have got from him recently.” Perhaps on another occasion he might have enjoyed revealing the details, but this wasn’t John, after all. He was close though, which meant an incredible amount. Later on he might comment on such a quick recovery. _After_ finding John again.

Perhaps he should have lingered on the deduction a little longer though. She hardly looked impressed, very quickly slipping back into Obvious Dislike. “Nice. Nice show there. Bet you felt _really_ good about yourself.” 

He smiled at her – the one he used to humour people with useful information.

“ _No_ idea why John put up with that – we used to make jokes about bloody self-obsessed toffs like you.”

The smile vanished.

“And my brother and I used to make jokes about ignorant idiots incapable of anything but mundane trivialities.” 

On second thoughts, perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Something to ask John later. It looked as if Harriet was about to explode from fury (pointless metaphor, but rather illustrative in this context), before she suddenly calmed herself. It was slightly disconcerting. Temper management thanks to John? (Or an AA meeting?)

“Look…” She pointed a finger in his face. How charming. “You stay away from my little brother, you got that? You stay _far_ away from him, or…”

“Or what?” He cocked his head to one side, in the exact mocking gesture that he knew drove John mad. “I’ve been threatened at gunpoint – a whole swimming pool of sniper rifles, in fact – strangled, faced off against a giant hitman, almost been blown up by a bomb, almost been poisoned, and indeed I regularly throw _myself_ in front of cars. What can _you_ do?”

She stared at him, which at least meant she lowered her finger. “You…” Sherlock prayed that that, at least, would let him get a word in. No such luck, he realised as she shook her head, recovering her anger at an alarming rate. “Bloody hell, that’s _exactly_ what he was running away from, you lunatic! You’re bloody _dangerous_!”

Sherlock was perfectly used to being called dangerous. Still, something about that made him pause (John _knew_ he was dangerous, wasn’t that why he’d been living with him, why he always dropped everything to run across London under gunfire?), long enough for her to turn to leave, pausing only to yell back at him, “And don’t even _think_ you’re getting to him, ‘cause I’m going to tell him to get the hell out of this city before you can find him!”

And she was gone, leaving him standing in the street, feeling curiously dazed.  
_____________________________________________________________________

Harriet. 

John’s _sister_. 

A factor he had completely overlooked. 

Stupid.

She’d gotten away. No doubt very soon the message that Sherlock was onto him would be relayed to John and…what? What would he do? John was so unpredictable sometimes that Sherlock honestly couldn’t say.

But he wanted to see him. Now. 

Certainly Sherlock could technically go back to Baker Street. Go through John’s possessions and hack his e-mail and his blog and anything else until he found Harry’s address. Of course, given their supposed bad relationship that would be difficult, but considering the fact he was now living with her (temporarily – one week), John had clearly had some sort of contact with his sister recently. Although it could have simply been by phone.

Speaking of siblings and phones…

He’d resisted it before. When it had been a matter of a case. Now though… John was worth it.

HARRIET WATSON’S ADDRESS.  
\- SH

The reply was almost instantaneous. Naturally.

451C CHAPTER ROAD, WILLESDEN.  
TREAD LIGHTLY.  
\- MH

\----------

Communication with Mycroft tended to leave a bad taste in the mouth, like government secrets or politics. However, it was somehow worth it to see the look on Harry’s face when she opened the door to him.

There was silence for a few beautiful seconds as she simply gawped at him. Then she apparently recovered. “The hell? You stalk me here, you psycho?”

“On the contrary, I asked someone to track you down.”

Her eye twitched, clearly a prelude to yet more shouting, yet on its own it was sufficiently familiar to momentarily distract him from a rather limited vocabulary. Then he allowed himself to say, calmly enough and raised precisely enough to cut through her rant, “Where is he?”

Briefly she clearly seemed to consider the ‘Who?’ tack, but luckily she evidently realised how mundane and pointless that would be. “What makes you think he’s still here?”

An excellent point. And precisely why Sherlock had stooped so low as to ask his own brother for help, which had been so unpleasant that he was very rapidly losing his own patience. “Because you won’t have let him leave yet, because you didn’t believe that I _could_ find you this quickly. But I did, and now I want to see him.”

“No.”

He examined her for a moment. Hitting a woman was rather beneath him, but then again, so was letting one get in his way. “I’m sorry?” he questioned quietly. Members of Scotland Yard knew to run at that tone. Before John, the only people he had encountered who had remained unmoved by it had been members of his own family.

“No. You’re not coming in. This is my bloody flat, I’m paying for it – ”

“Which I’m sure is much easier now that you’re not spending all your money on drinking. Almost makes up for the fact you don’t have Clara with whom to split the rent, but then, I’m sure she still sends you money, especially now you’re _clean_ , since _you_ walked out on _her_ and she still loves you and simply _hates_ herself for it.” 

Silence.

And it seemed John’s temper – or, more precisely, its way of expressing itself – was something of a Watson family trait, since where before Harriet had been simply angry, now she looked calm. Deadly calm.

“Let me get one thing straight, you piece of shit,” Harriet said in a voice that could easily have shot a man in cold blood in an opposite building. “You don’t get to mention Clara. Ever. And if you ever do, I swear to God I will find John’s revolver and shoot you before you can utter another word.”

Sherlock simply smirked at her. “You’re very defensive of her. She won’t take you back, I take it?”

Looking at Harriet at that moment brought the same thrill as looking down the barrel of a gun. “You… You don’t care about anybody, you don’t know what it’s _like_ , you bastard. You just chew people up and spit them back out, and if you think I’m going to let you do it to my little brother – ”

“I can assure you,” he cut in, feeling his own temper rise, “that I have no intention of _chewing John up_ – ”

“Oh, you don’t intend to, but you will! You will because he’s bloody _nothing_ to you – ”

“You hadn’t even _spoken_ to him since he returned from Afghanistan, you don’t know _anything_ about him – ”

“I can assure you I know a lot more about my own _brother_ than some deluded overdramatic posh know-it-all who wouldn’t know how to act like a real boy if he – ”

“Harry!”

Both of them froze. Then, slowly (possibly comically, if anyone from Scotland Yard had seen them), they both looked at the door behind Harry. Specifically, at the man standing there.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, without thinking. 

He looked well. That was the first thing Sherlock noticed. He looked like he might have been getting more sleep, although probably still not a regular eight hours judging by the fact that he still looked tired, even if he didn’t look exhausted. He might have been eating better, but more likely he hadn’t been getting the regular exercise from runs across London. Most importantly (at least that was how his mind ranked it, despite it hardly being _that_ important when considered rationally), he didn’t look angry to see Sherlock. More…resigned. 

Sherlock could work with that.

“John,” Harriet said, probably not meaning to echo Sherlock, her voice suddenly very different and hardly as authoritative as might have been expected from someone who had been so willing to defend her ‘little brother’. “I said I’d deal with him – ”

“And I said I had to do it,” he said quietly, walking towards them. “And I definitely didn’t tell you to start shouting at him.”

“Didn’t you hear what the hell he said?”

“Yes.” John looked at him – still resigned, possibly slightly disappointed. Sherlock wondered when the novelty would wear off. “I’m not saying that was okay – ” he narrowed his eyes at him and Sherlock caught the definite _Not Good_ “ – but I need to do this.”

“Hmm,” Harriet muttered, glowering at Sherlock. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“ _Harry_.” John _looked_ at her, and Sherlock could identify some form of sibling communication occurring in that. It was eerily and uncomfortably reminiscent of Mycroft. He wasn’t sure he liked what that meant regarding Harriet’s answering look.

“You said you didn’t trust yourself around him.”

“I still need to talk to him.” John paused. “Alone.”

“Like _hell_ – ”

Quickly John turned, grabbing his coat from the hook next to the door (and how had Sherlock not immediately noticed that, not immediately gravitated towards it?) and gesturing with his head outside. “Come on.”

Still a little bewildered, and ridiculously happy in a way he would never ever admit to, Sherlock followed him. After a few doors, he turned to shout back, “You might find it easier to convince her you’ve quit if you weren’t hiding the vodka in the umbrella stand.”

“You _piece of_ – ”

“ _Sherlock_!” John snapped, grabbing his hand and yanking him away down the corridor, the two of them easily falling into step even when escaping something as mundane as an irate sister.

And didn’t that feel _wonderful_?

\---------

They had been walking in silence (not awkward, never between them, but heavy with something nonetheless) for approximately six minutes – just turning into a park, different to John’s normal haunt but evidently he had been avoiding that one – before John finally spoke up. “Sorry about Harry, by the way.”

“Unimportant. I’m used to women shouting at me.”

He didn’t say it as a joke, but John laughed anyway – that strange (endearing) snort of air he did whenever he thought Sherlock had said something ridiculous. “Yeah, well, this one wasn’t your fault.” He appeared to consider that. “Well, not entirely your fault. Her temper’s always got the better of her, and what with the drinking, and the wanting to drink…” He sighed. “She’s not easy to deal with.”

“Neither am I.” 

“And I get both of you.”

That comment made Sherlock think of something.

“She’s your older sister.”

“Yes.” John looked up at him. “Is that important?”

Sherlock considered this. Why did it stand out for him? “I assumed you were older.” (Never assume.) “You seem more authoritative. More concerned about what she does; more used to dealing with her…problem.”

John looked confused, before his face cleared with the expression that meant he had just followed a deduction. “And obviously all siblings follow the Holmes pattern.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, because no, he didn’t think that, but John and Mycroft did seem to follow each others’ thoughts much better than he was ever going to be comfortable with. “I only realised when I met her without you there. Standard over-protective older sister.”

It was only when John smiled that Sherlock realised how much he had missed it. “Sorry I missed that. Anybody die?”

As usual, his own smile caught Sherlock by surprise. “I think I was only saved by realising who she was. Stopped her from physically attacking me, at least.”

“Careful. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

Finally (and when did he start considering it something to be expected?) they exchanged glances, both smiles widening into their private shared varieties that would probably have been unrecognisable to anyone who knew them.

That didn’t mean all was resolved though, however much Sherlock found himself wanting to just go back to Baker Street and tell John about the case. That much was evident when John spoke again. 

“Mind you, living with a recovering alcoholic made a nice change from a detective who fancies himself as a sociopath.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply. John didn’t like discussing the sociopathy comment, he knew that, but he’d never mentioned that he didn’t _believe_ it. “‘Fancies’?” he repeated, trying to keep his voice light (or rather normal, because he knew that there were very few things more suspicious than Sherlock Holmes trying to sound innocent).

John looked serious. “Well, it’s what you’ve been told. What was it – You’ve been ‘reliably informed’.”

No. He was not going to talk about it. Not like this, and not after… _that_. John had to explain himself first. All Sherlock muttered was “You’re welcome to an opinion” and then he deliberately lengthened his stride that small amount to force John to focus on keeping up without giving away what he was doing. 

At least that was comforting ( _normal_ ). Regardless of John’s reasons for vanishing (‘deal with him’, deal with what?), whatever it was that had somehow forced the two of them into each other’s lives so completely was still there. For now.

Despite Sherlock supposedly setting the pace, it was John who brought them to a halt, stopping beside a bench overlooking a lake. A nice enough view, but, more importantly, _private_. “Look, I… Sit down, okay? This could take a while. You don’t have to say anything back, just…listen.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but obeyed, sweeping his coat so that none of his suit was touching the wood. John didn’t seem to care.

Somewhere, hovering between them, was the Question. The one that Sherlock wanted to ask and – judging by the millions of signs he had learnt to recognise which indicated John was uncomfortable – that John was waiting for him to ask. Or was going to bring up anyway. Maybe that would be easier. John was normally the one who led the way on matters Sherlock didn’t understand, and vice versa.

“So…” Ah, there it was. “You’re probably wondering why I took off.” John raised his head slightly, looking carefully sideways at him, as if gauging what reaction to expect. “Unless you already, you know, deduced it.”

Sherlock smiled to himself – the one which looked more like an odd quirk; the one he normally didn’t show to anyone he wanted to like him because people rarely recognised it as a genuine smile. “Not enough data.”

“Really?” John frowned in confusion, before his face cleared again. “Oh, of course. Emotions. You have an image you’ve been working on.”

There it was again, and now that they had finally stopped dancing around the important subject Sherlock absolutely refused to let John dwell on this strange new obsession of his. “Some emotions can be observed.” He paused – actually _hesitated_ , if he was being honest with himself (for once) – then added, “Sometimes I find you…difficult to predict.”

“Christ.” Sitting back, John blew out a breath. “That hurt to admit, didn’t it?”

No response to that.

“Thankyou,” he said quietly, and good, Sherlock could tell that he meant that; that he genuinely realised and appreciated what Sherlock had been forced to admit. (Except he hadn’t been forced, he’d done so freely, and now Sherlock was suddenly incredibly thankful John was too good to take Mycroft’s money because there was no knowing how much information he might give away to this man.)

“Just out of curiosity… When did you realise I’d left?”

Hesitant again. Curious, but worrying. For once, Sherlock felt a flash of what could have been guilt. And yet another first: he found himself stalling. “When I realised you’d gone of your own free will?”

“You thought I’d been kidnapped?” Spoken incredulously, but then John evidently considered it further since his expression darkened. “Again?”

That change in expression was a clue. Obviously, Sherlock was good at recognising clues when he saw them. What it meant though… Insufficient data once more. “It seemed a reasonable hypothesis.”

“I’m glad me getting kidnapped is _reasonable_.” Now John’s tone had changed too: something more badly-tempered. Offended? 

As if prodding a wound to check the pain receptors, Sherlock responded, “It has precedence.”

Rather than a direct reply, he was rewarded with John turning away again (was he glaring at those ducks?), but did manage to catch the words, “And that’s part of the problem.”

So there was a problem. A problem related to kidnapping. Was John scared? Highly unlikely: no precedent in that area. Concerned? Annoyed? If it was just part of the problem, how big a part? How big was that problem? Once again, Sherlock was rather alarmed as his mind became unusually unfocused. Did John have any idea what effect…whatever this had been had had on him?

“So you weren’t kidnapped, and you knew I might think you had been. Or that something else had happened. What else was I supposed to conclude? If you hadn’t been kidnapped, why vanish?” 

“Because that was the only way I could get away.” The words were said so softly that at first Sherlock was convinced he hadn’t heard him right.

His eyes narrowed. “And you wanted to…get away from me.” There was that nasty taste again, except it was far bitterer than that from Mycroft. “Natural enough. If it helps, you lasted the longest.”

“What?” John was staring at him, as if he’d failed to follow the obvious trail of clues to the announced conclusion again. 

“Out of the people I’ve roomed with.” He sat back, steepling his fingers as if this was simply another deduction, rather than one which was doing something very unpleasant to his insides. “None of them stayed as long as you, and they weren’t being shot at or kidnapped.”

“Sherlock, we’ve only been living together for a few months.”

“Precisely.”

“People usually walk out before this?”

“Head in the fridge; fingers in the bread bin; eyeballs in the microwave. Generally considered a deal-breaker regarding living arrangements.”

He was very aware of John staring at the side of his head in disbelief. A glance informed him that there was more than a little similarity in expressions between the two Watsons he had encountered.

“So… You do that as a test? For your flatmates?”

Sherlock scowled. “No. I do it because I’m interested in the data. They’re the ones who take it as something outrageous.”

Slowly John nodded. “Right,” he said, in the familiar voice used whenever he was beginning to grasp something Sherlock had thought was perfectly obvious. “Of course you don’t see the problem with any of that stuff. Of course.”

“I was under the impression you were leaving. Simpler to just pack everything of course – why the single bag?” He shot a glance sideways, examining the reaction, since really this was no different to interviewing a suspect. Really.

“Because I wasn’t leaving.”

Nonsense. “That hardly seems to fit the data. Or your own statement. You said – ”

“That I wanted to get away.” John sighed. “You don’t get the concept of needing space, do you? Not just personal space, but…any. Don’t you ever take…holidays?”

What a stupid question. “John, having seen me when I’m inactive for a few days, can you really imagine me voluntarily enduring a _fortnight_ of boredom?” He was perfectly aware that he said _fortnight_ the way a ‘normal’ person might say, for example, _colonic irrigation_.

Another sigh. “Right, stupid me.” Sherlock did appreciate it when John could be self-aware. “So, the getting away…”

After waiting expectantly – and apparently in vain – for John to actually finish his sentence, Sherlock prompted, “Donovan mentioned you couldn’t take me anymore.” He repeated the words lightly, careful to sound like he was simply repeating data. Which was precisely what he was doing.

Glancing over at John, he saw the doctor looking at him with an odd expression – certainly not one he could easily categorise. After a moment, it went, as he breathed out a strangely hollow single laugh and looked ahead again. “Sally would take it like that.”

_Sally_. “I had no idea you were on such friendly terms.”

“You hang out together at enough crime scenes, you can’t help it.” A pause. “Well, I guess you can.”

“I don’t _need_ to be on friendly terms with any of them.”

“You don’t do friendly terms with anyone. Doesn’t mean I can’t though.” And there was something about the way he said that which reminded Sherlock that John really was a much better person than him.

“She also said I didn’t ‘deserve’ you,” Sherlock informed him, choosing not to repeat his thought: that the very small part of him who _could_ occasionally consider the question of _doing the right thing_ sometimes agreed.

To his credit, John looked surprised. “She said that to you?” He seemed to consider it for a moment. “I guess I should be flattered.”

Sherlock watched him carefully. The first time they had met, John had seemed almost boringly obvious: an open book. Now Sherlock was finding it much harder to read him, and he wasn’t sure if that was a reflection on John or himself. “Everyone seems to think they need to protect you from me.”

Although he didn’t immediately respond, Sherlock could see John’s mouth twist in what he recognised as annoyance. Soldiers rarely liked others deciding what the threat was for them, and little brothers even less so.

“I guess they do.” Sherlock noticed him flexing a hand against his leg – the old psychosomatic limp. Nervous. “Look, I… I left because…this is mad. You. My life since I met you. This isn’t what life after war’s supposed to be like.”

“You’d prefer the alternative?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself. Since the pool, actually – when you locked yourself up chasing after Moriarty and I had to go for the check-up and it all piled up. That was the longest time away from you I’ve had since we moved in together, and even that was just two days.” Sherlock remembered. Two days until he’d yanked John out of group therapy (idiotic suggestion; who had thought of that?). Knowing John was awake, safe, and not with him had been…troubling. 

“But you didn’t leave straight away.”

“No.” For a moment John seemed to consider this. “I mean, I was starting to think about it – how I’d just let myself get dragged along behind you, and how maybe my therapist’s right to hate you.”

His eyebrows rose. “I was under the impression she simply disliked me.”

John smiled to himself. “Trust me, after Moriarty she _hates_ you.”

“And she advised a break?” At that moment he had an incredible urge to text Mycroft – twice in one day, unprecedented but suddenly very necessary – and demand that he get that woman as far away from John as possible.

Fortunately, it seemed John was smart enough not to listen to such advice. “She’s been saying that since my first session after we moved in. No… It was Harry, actually. Well, Sally first.”

Donovan. When Sherlock got his hands on her… 

“Don’t blame it on her,” John said, interrupting his thoughts and somehow guessing at exactly what he had disturbed. “We went for a coffee after the hospital let me go.” How…cosy. So that had been why John had smelled of Giselle’s coffee on his first day back. They must have deliberately chosen a café where the owner filled the area with so many scents Sherlock would have had great difficulty picking out Donovan’s. Or, more likely, _John_ had chosen it. 

“And did what?” he asked, not really wanting to hear much more about _coffee_ with _Donovan_ , but at least John was acting as if it had been innocent enough.

“And _talked_ ,” John replied with a scowl, as if reading his mind again (which really was unfair, that was Sherlock’s trick). “You know, like _friends_. She asked what had happened, I asked about the investigation, that sort of thing.”

“And then you decided to vanish.”

At least John had the decency to look guilty. “Well, she suggested it. I was saying about how, you know, Moriarty made me into a bomb – ” His voice broke on that word, his hand twitching again.

Oh.

“It meant something more than dying to you.”

John scowled again. “We all think about it, out there. About being a hostage; about the bombers.” Suddenly he hit his hand against the bench in an outburst of anger that made Sherlock flinch. “I got away from the war and then, because of you, I ended up a bloody hostage anyway! Some psychopath wired me up with enough semtex to level a _building_ and you – ”

He broke off, breathing heavily, eyes suddenly strangely pleading, as if he expected Sherlock to say something. Something _right_ , Sherlock thought, biting back his immediate reaction (that was why he had been blinking like that, there in the pool, S-O-S, his training had been activated). Except he didn’t know what _was_ the right thing to say. 

Bewilderingly, he had no idea.

Perhaps he looked a little dumbfounded as well, since after a moment of looking closely at him, John suddenly relaxed, slumping back on the bench. 

“I’m…sorry,” Sherlock tried cautiously. Perhaps simply arguing with John about this would have been easier, but, as loathe as he was to ever apologise, that seemed to be what John wanted to hear.

John just looked at him, before nodding slowly. Acknowledgement or acceptance? “Yeah. Sorry. I…sort of had that same explosion at the café. Hence Sally saying I needed some time off. Besides… I noticed that it was a lot easier to think things through when you weren’t around. Because you’re amazing, really you are, and I just can’t think straight around you, I just think about how exciting it all is. Which really is a problem, because I’m supposed to be recovering from a bloody war. The last thing I needed was an excuse like you.”

Some of this sounded prepared, as if John had been going over those words for a while. However, Sherlock’s mind was still attempting to recover. It wasn’t that he forgot John’s history – the man was a soldier through and through, along with the medical training it made him positively invaluable – but the timescale was a data entry he rarely viewed. 

Damn it all. Clearly this was an emotional matter; he hardly needed Donovan or Harriet to tell him that. He needed to tell John something encouraging, or he was going to walk away. “You think you’re addicted.” Or not.

He heard John mutter something which sounded suspiciously like “Projecting”, before saying louder, “Maybe. I… I don’t think I’m the same person anymore, and you’re what made me actually realise that. I thought I was just going to get better.”

“Boring.”

“Safe.”

“Exactly.”

Technically there was nothing remarkable about John looking at him like that on its own – John spent a lot of his time looking at him, Sherlock _liked_ that, liked the idea that it was difficult for someone to not look at him, especially John – but in a context and a conversation Sherlock was finding incredibly difficult to follow, it made him feel suddenly, strangely, uncomfortable. He didn’t know what John was thinking, and that was definitely not good.

“You know, there’s something Harry said, when she visited me in the hospital. When we first talked…about you. That if we’d met before the war, we wouldn’t be friends. That I wouldn’t even like you. That’s why she doesn’t like you. Part of it, anyway.”

Sherlock breathed in, clenching his fists inside his coat pockets. “Is she right?”

“Maybe.” The sharp exhalation somehow caught Sherlock by surprise. John noticed, shooting him that smile that Sherlock was just beginning to suspect was one reserved especially for him. He liked that, he thought. “But I always found those _what if_ questions pointless. Even before.”

“When you were normal.”

“This may surprise you, Sherlock, but most of us start off normal. It’s our lives that make us strange.” That smile again.

“Dull. How did you escape that?”

“How do you think? I spent most of the war wondering what it would be like to be back in the real world, but… It gets inside you. Changes you. Kills off anything normal so that you can fit in out there. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have liked you before. I hope I would have, but I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Point is, I met you when we worked. And – this is the ridiculous part – I _trust_ you. You’re a menace to society – ” Sherlock preened “ – but I don’t think I’d have it any other way. Damage’s already done.”

Well, that was a neat enough conclusion. Or at least, it fitted Sherlock’s own findings regarding the two of them. “The answer you were looking for?”

“Sort of.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “While I appreciate you thought you needed distance to reach that, did it really take you _days_ to realise it?” Oddly enough, he sounded as if it had been obvious. 

Perhaps it had been. At least, John seemed to think so, since he sullenly shook his head. “Hardly.”

“Then what?” Sherlock tried to sound disinterested, since in any other context – with any other person – he wouldn’t care. Whether or not that was the case here, he wasn’t sure.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny that his interest was somewhat piqued when John’s face darkened, as if reflecting on something that he didn’t like to consider.

“It’s something Greg said to me, all the way back on that taxi driver case. When I really didn’t know who you were.” There were so many ways Sherlock could take that, and they were probably all true. He was momentarily distracted by that – how so many things could be contained within one sentence, because nobody treated English the way they should, with caution – when John reported something that sent his mind off the rails yet again (surely unhealthy, and he could only hope that something critical went wrong in America, Russia and China at the same time to ensure his brother never found out about this).

“He said you’re a great man – I’m with him there, you’re insane but you’re bloody incredible – and that you might even be a good one some day. If we’re lucky.” John looked slightly awkward, as if repeating something he had been told not to, except Sherlock couldn’t analyse that in the level of detail it deserved because out of all the things he might have expected, that was not one of them.

Lestrade thought that it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to be a good man. The same Lestrade who had found him unconscious in some alleyway (he doesn’t remember the name, the drugs blanked it out, as good an incentive as any), close to choking on his own vomit, and dragged him to a hospital before the overdose killed him. Being great was something Sherlock knew he was good at; being _good_ had never crossed his mind.

“And what do you think?”

“Honestly? Sometimes, I think we need to be _lucky_.” It wasn’t biting or cruel; it was simply a statement of fact, as Sherlock could always expect from him. That was why judgements from John Watson actually _meant_ something. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I can’t get the whole Moriarty case out of my head. How excited you got. How bloody _fascinated_ and _impressed_.” Was that disgust? Resignation? Distaste? John was spitting the words out but because he was normal (most of the time) that could mean anything. 

“And the pool…or the bit before that…” There John uncharacteristically trailed off, and Sherlock mentally berated himself for never having considered the _before_ until now. Jim and John alone together. Hard to say who might win, under normal circumstances. 

“You know how similar you two are?” Stupid question – Sherlock didn’t even dignify it with an acknowledgement. “It was like looking at you – you if you went a different way. Except sometimes – not often, just lately – I think it’s not too late for you. To be him. People could still call Moriarty ‘great’, whether he wins or not, if this is ever over with." 

Sherlock was very certain he should be repulsed by the idea, and briefly he did feel a certain twinge of something that somebody else might have called ‘conscience’. Then again, John did have a point. “You don’t approve of being great?” 

Another all too familiar expression: according to John, Sherlock had said something that was very Not Good. Or at least not appropriate in this context. Sherlock found the difference unnecessarily complicated. 

"I think there’s more to it than that. Fine, you’re brilliant, and I do thank God that you decided to solve crimes – we all do – but there have been lots of great men, and you didn’t become a detective to do good, you did it because it was _interesting_. You could be a great man in any other way you liked, because that’s what you’re like.” 

“And you have your grand ideas of goodness. You _care_.” Fortunately Sherlock managed to restrain the normal disdainful tone he normally reserved for such concepts as _goodness_ , and _heroes_ for that matter. After John’s reaction to the latter, he had grown more wary. However, he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “I believe most people would call that ‘wishful thinking’.” 

“So would I.” For a moment, as he exhaled, John looked incredibly weary, disturbingly old. “Funny thing is,” he ploughed on, “Lestrade brought what he said up when he was interviewing me. He seems to think that…” He bit his lip, his face twisting in a way which indicated something both annoying and troubling. “He said he thinks _I’m_ a good man. _Me_. I’ve killed people, over there and here – ” said matter-of-factly, no untidy emotions, good to hear ” – and apparently I’m still the one they think is going to stop _you_ from becoming _him_. I’m the _one man_ in the whole _bloody_ world who is supposed to make you _good_. I don’t even think I’m that good. And you – do you even realise what I’m talking about? If I’d told you that, if I’d tried to _explain_ rather than just walking out, would you – _could_ you – have ever _understood_? Would you have had _any_ idea what it’s like to be told that _you’re_ the standard, and if you _fail_ , if you slip up at all, then _you_ – and _him_ – ” 

He broke off and made an extraordinary noise – some sort of growl and groan – and let his head fall forward into his hands. For his part, Sherlock could only stare at him, stunned, vaguely aware that his face was probably, for once in his life, a perfect picture of confused bewilderment. Because John was right: Sherlock couldn’t even begin to understand what he was thinking, not after that. One of the nice things about being him was not having to be good, whatever else people said. It just…hadn’t been important when he was growing up, and crime scenes had hardly demanded it as a trait. Certainly nobody had ever been sufficiently deluded to try applying the word to him. 

“And...you’ve resolved that now?” he asked, because if John had been having some sort of moral crisis this entire time then Sherlock was rather glad he’d missed it, however fascinating observing John could be. Watching him like this was incredibly disturbing. 

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say though. 

“I’ve been _trying_ to sort it out, at the same time I’ve been trying to sort _us_ out.” Apparently Sherlock only looked more confused when John finally raised his head up from his hands, which didn’t help at all, as John explained, still sounding frustrated, “It’s not just how insane your life is and whether I want to be off running across rooftops or shooting people to save your life – ” at the back of his mind Sherlock wondered whether John remembered that they were still in a public park “ – it’s whether I want to be your bloody conscience! When I pictured my life I didn’t figure I’d turn into Jiminy bloody Cricket!” 

One of these days, Sherlock hoped, John would stop ruining what had been perfectly good speeches with incomprehensible gibberish. 

Looking at him, John sighed and muttered, “He’s a cricket, travels round with a wooden puppet, tells it right from wrong – ” 

“The cricket talks to a puppet.” 

“Well, the puppet’s alive, and wants to be a real boy – ” 

“So you’re calling me a wooden puppet.” 

"No, I – ” 

“And you’re a… _cricket_.” 

“Sherlock! You’re missing the point!” 

"I’m not missing anything,” he said, offended. “You’re not making any sense.” 

"My _point_ , Sherlock – ” John really could be magnificent when he was angry, the old soldier coming out from behind the woolly-jumpered exterior “ – is that I’ve never thought of myself as a good person, not like _that_ , and now I’m supposed to be good enough for two people. For _you_.” He scowled, then added, “And even if I somehow manage _that_ , which I really doubt, nobody’s going to care or even remember because I’m not the _great_ one here.” 

Sherlock stared steadily back at him. “So walk away. Do what Donovan and Harriet tell you and save yourself. Live a long and dull life and congratulate yourself on your escape.” He sounded bitter. Inside… Inside he wasn’t sure what was happening. He still didn’t understand (less because he’d failed to fully analyse and comprehend the situation and more because Sherlock had never been good with moral crises – Lestrade had told him as much often enough), and he was definitely annoyed about that, but that bitterness was true too, as well as a pain he couldn’t identify, and something small and surprisingly fierce that he might have called panic in any other context. On top of all of that – there was a reason he didn’t like feeling, feelings were complicated and layered and refused to be untangled into order – there was a slight almost-sadness, not on his part, but rather at John living a normal life when he was so much better than that. 

Perhaps without John around he could stop bothering with whatever these oddities were (they certainly weren’t efficient, they were _messy_ ). Certainly before John he’d managed perfectly well without feeling anything. And then he also wouldn’t have to deal with John’s bizarre mood swings, since if he wasn’t very much mistaken, the man suddenly didn’t look angry anymore, but was instead smiling bemusedly at him. “Of course,” he said, and even managed a slightly hysterical laugh that made Sherlock abruptly wonder if insanity really was contagious; whether both of them had gone more than a little bit mad. “I could just…walk away. It would be that easy.” He rolled his eyes, as if _Sherlock_ had said something stupid. “God, I wish." 

Perhaps Sherlock was just riled by the implication, but he found himself snapping, “You wish you hadn’t had an interesting life.” 

"Hardly.” That smile was actually becoming broader, something closer to a real one. Sherlock commented to himself that if that wasn’t a mad smile, then he would kiss Anderson. More disturbing, though, was how familiar it looked. _Oh, it’s Christmas._

Warily, Sherlock inquired, “Then what was your brilliant conclusion? I assume you had one – either that or you’ve gone mad; either would fit.” 

“Rich coming from you.” John sighed, smile obligingly becoming slightly less manic, but still not vanishing. “Sorry, it’s just… I keep imagining what my therapist would say if she knew what I was about to tell you.” 

Sherlock waited. Then raised his eyebrows as a prompt. 

“Which is?” 

"That it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” John laughed and Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he should start running (because the man had clearly cracked, and the last madman they’d encountered used people-bombs for foreplay) or grin back (because Sherlock was certain he was mad too, and knowing that John was staying – at least he thought this meant he was staying – made him suddenly feel positively giddy). 

Carefully, trying not to give any of this away, he examined John’s insanity. “Which part doesn’t matter? Almost dying? Having to be a good man?” 

“Any of it. I’ve been thinking about it for _days_ now, going around in circles, and I can’t imagine my life if I hadn’t met you. I’m pretty certain I would have shot myself by now.” He said it so very matter-of-factly, yet Sherlock flinched at the words. Which was interesting and more than a little unsettling. “I told you, we met when we worked. You’re the worst flatmate I’ve ever had, and you _are_ going to get me killed, and yet I wouldn’t have missed _any_ of this. I trust you and I have no idea _why_. It’s mad and you’re mad and I think I’ve gone a bit mad now, and I don’t care.” 

Sherlock should have been disturbed by the undeniable happiness that came out of nowhere (except it wasn’t from nowhere, everything came from somewhere, and he had his suspicions), enough to catch him off-guard so that he said, “Your therapist will be thrilled” with his own mad grin. 

“Absolutely.” 

Two mad men solving crimes across London. The more he thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. 

“What about that cricket of yours?” he asked, because he couldn’t help but feel that John being insane rather negated that concern. Besides, he rather thought Lestrade might have been onto something there, not that he would ever admit it to either of them. 

To his surprise, John shrugged, although that smile did leave. “I realised I don’t have a choice. It’s frustrating and scary and don’t think I’m okay with it, but…I didn’t think Lestrade was stating a fact, but I guess he was. I don’t know, maybe I did have a choice in this before, but now… You know me: duty matters to me. I tried picturing _you_ without _me_ , and I had bloody nightmares – worse than Afghanistan, sometimes. I kept thinking about how you just got into that taxi, how you were going to take that damn pill, and that was bad enough. Then I thought about you and Moriarty, and how that might have gone if I’d been anyone else, and…” He broke off, shaking his head. Sherlock tried valiantly to dispel the tiny spark of interest at the mere thought. “From what I’ve heard from Sally and Greg, as insane as it sounds, you are ‘better’. So I can’t walk away now, because I have a _duty_ – to others – to make you good somehow. Or to be the good man for both of us.” 

It was an excellent speech. Sherlock blamed that for the fact that he found himself admitting, “If anyone’s capable of that, you are.” 

At least a surprised John was more familiar. “What?” 

Sherlock blinked at him. A good question. What? “I – You’re good at what you – That is – You’re a doctor, and you help people, and there’s me – I’m not that – You _stayed_ , and that’s…good,” he finished lamely, after stuttering and rambling in a way he had only ever heard from himself once before, with a gun to the head and adrenaline addling his thoughts. 

This time John’s smile was much softer and more familiar, something comforting (home), and Sherlock found himself returning it, so the world had clearly gone topsy-turvy even as it felt like it was settling back into what was _right_. 

"You’re welcome." 

They remained like that longer than most people would have found normal – it was times like this, Sherlock was relatively certain, that people started _assuming_ things, which was definitely dull and probably obvious and either way unimportant – just sitting together in the park. John was good at being silent when it was needed; Sherlock loved that about him. 

It was more comforting that he could have imagined, knowing that that silence was staying. 

Finally, as the sun actually started setting – loss of time, Sherlock was used to that from thinking on his own, but not just from sitting with someone (perhaps he was picking it up from John) – John pulled himself to his feet and stretched. “Come on, we’d best be heading back.” 

Sherlock looked up at him – an odd angle, something he appreciated, with the sun highlighting John in an incredibly over-romanticised way that Sherlock should really delete but would no doubt linger in his off-limits password-protected undeletable file – and gave a wry smile. “Shouldn’t you explain things to Harriet?" 

John shuddered. “God, no. I’ll grab my stuff tomorrow; she can have a go at me then." 

"Such a model of sibling love." 

"Nobody’s perfect. And you’re a hypocrite." 

"I never mentioned myself.” 

"Makes a change.” John jerked his head back. “Come on. You can grab us a taxi.” 

With a theatrical sigh, Sherlock swept himself to his feet, striding away across the park and knowing John was right next to him. 

It was a nice feeling. Possibly a ‘great’ feeling, if he ever used the word in that manner. 

Definitely a bit good. 


End file.
